The Thief

by J. R. Ward

  "Are you sure about that?"

  Sola stared straight ahead without seeing anything. "Assail's going to wipe my memories, he said. Make it so all this"--she motioned around the room--"doesn't exist. Assuming that is possible."

  "It is."

  At the sad tone in the woman's voice, Sola refocused on the doctor. "How do you know?"

  "Vishous did that to me. He took...my memories from me. But fate had other plans for the two of us, thank God." The other woman frowned. "The amnesia thing is the standard procedure if a human gets too close. It's the reason vampires have been able to lay low as successfully as they have. But it doesn't have to be like that."

  "When it comes to me, it does." Sola shook her head. "I'm out of here. In fact, I would leave now if my grandmother would let us. I can take care of myself and my own. I don't need this--and I don't need him."

  As she laid that out there, she meant each and every word. This whole thing was so far and away more than she could handle, it was on a whole different planet.

  She was going to get gone the second she was able, and she was never going to look back. And hey, if Assail did what he said he was going to, she wouldn't remember any of it. So she wasn't going to have to worry about all this confusion, panic, and scrambling sense that reality was not nearly as concrete and settled as she had always thought it was.

  She also didn't have to worry about missing him.

  Not that she would have anyway.

  Nope. Not at all.

  FIFTY-THREE

  As Vishous materialized downtown with Rhage, he knew what he was riding up on before he was even fully present.

  Yup, there was a civilian down in the dirty snow, writhing in pain, with no visible marks or tears on his clothes and no scent of blood in the air. The new twist was there was another male with him--who looked as though he had seen a ghost. Natch.

  "We-we-we were just walking along, heading for the club," the guy who was on his feet said. "It came from out of nowhere. It was like a shadow--it was...and then it was just gone. After it attacked him, it just disappeared..."

  V knelt by the injured male and captured the pinwheeling arm. "We're going to help you, buddy. We've got help coming."

  He looked around as Rhage stepped in close to the witness and tried to calm things down. The alley was not off the beaten path at all. It was a pass-through between clubs, and there were pedestrians of the human and nosy variety walking by just out there on the four-lane street proper.

  "Please...I'm dying..."

  V refocused on the civilian who had been attacked. "I gotchu. You're going to be fine."

  That last one was a lie, he feared.

  "I'm dying...I can't see anymore..."

  Fuck. If this kid turned out like the last one did, how in the hell were they going to isolate that?

  A scattering of laughter had V glancing over his shoulder. Four human women came around the alley's corner, the drunken bunch walking in an intertwined lineup, as if they were functioning as their own crutches. As their sloppy feet tripped and slid in the snow, their giggles were the kind of thing that made V want to outlaw drinking for the human race.

  "Oh! Someone had too much!" one of them said, pointing to the civilian.

  "Tipsy, tipsy!"

  Giggling. More giggling and pointing. More stupid fucking comments from the Instagramming set about someone who just happened to be dying.

  Vishous nearly got up and yelled, Hashtag that, you bitches.

  What kept him quiet was the fact that, for once in their Snapchat lives, they didn't get a phone out to document the scene. They were just too drunk and high, and as much as he really wanted to tell them off, he wasn't about to waste his time on non-criticals--although at sunrise, when he lay his little fucking head to sleep, he was going to put some curses on them: five-pound unexplained weight gain--in the left butt cheek only; accidentally deleted social media accounts; spray tans that turned into raging cases of dermatitis.

  He'd wish them all an STD, but they were probably going to have that covered by the end of the night on their own nickel.

  V turned back to the patient and prayed like hell Manny's driving skills held up. "Just hang with me--"

  "I can't breathe...I'm...not...breathing..."

  The civilian's chest began to pump up and down, the inhales and exhales so congested that they were like whistles.

  "Rhage," V hissed. When his brother looked down, V nodded his head toward the civilian. "Give us some space. Now."

  "What's happening?" the male asked. "Is he--is he dying? What's going on?"

  Thank fuck Hollywood took the direction and ran with it. With quiet reassurances, he drew the friend out of the alley and around the corner--which was going to spare the male what happened next.

  Or what V worried was coming.

  "I don't...feel...right," the injured guy was saying. "Something...happening..."

  V released the hand he'd been holding and discreetly unholstered his gun. With efficiency, and without having to look because he'd done it so many times, he took a suppressor off his belt and fit it on to the muzzle.

  He did not take his eyes off the male as the last breath was exhaled.

  "You're okay, buddy," he said roughly. "You're going to be just fine..."

  Even though death had come, he wanted to reassure the poor sonofabitch.

  And as he promised, Vishous was ready with the gun when, some ten minutes later, the body jerked once...twice...and woke the fuck up as a demon.

  Before the undead could get its groove on, V put the gun to its temple and squeezed off three rounds right into the brain. There was no noise, other than the flopping of the arms, and only he, with his vampire sense of smell, caught the whiff of the gunpowder and fresh blood in the cold, cold wind.

  Praying for stillness was not what you usually went for with a corpse. But as V waited to see what happened next, he was hoping like fuck that nothing moved. That there were no twitches. No jerks. No jiggles.

  When two good solid minutes of statue passed, he put his weapon away with the suppressor still in place, and then snagged a knit cap that he kept on him.

  He put the thing on the kid's head to hide the bullet wounds and then whistled. Just as Rhage and the friend came back into the alley, Manny pulled the mobile surgical unit around at the far end and trundled down.

  "Is he dead?" the civilian asked. "Oh...God...is he dead?"

  * * *

  --

  Five stories directly above the scene, Throe stepped away from the lip of the roof and addressed his shadow. "You did very well. Now off you go."

  As he made a waving motion, the entity disappeared into thin air, leaving nothing in its wake--and Throe once again peered over the edge of the building to the alley down below. A large RV had shown up, and Vishous--yes, the Brother with the goatee was named Vishous, if he recalled--gathered up the body and carried it quickly into the belly of the vehicle.

  Rhage, the blond Brother, put his arm around the shoulders of the weeping civilian. And then the pair of them dematerialized.

  Throe stayed where he was as the Brotherhood's presence rumbled off.

  They had to be on to his plan, he thought. Why else would Vishous have killed the injured civilian? The Brother had drilled three bullets into that head, and then Rhage had left with the other one, as if he were going to strangle, stab, or shoot the male.

  They were controlling the situation through elimination. Making sure no one could talk about the attacks. Hindering Throe's progress toward social disruption.

  "Damn it," he muttered.

  And what if they know of his identity?

  Filled with frustration, he paced around the ductwork and mechanicals, trying to think if he'd done anything to give himself away--then again, if the Brotherhood knew or suspected it was him, they would come and find him. It wasn't as if he were hiding himself at that mansion he'd taken over.

  Of course, that could create a problem considering h
e'd murdered the owner and his too-young shellan. Sooner or later, he was going to have to account for their whereabouts--but he had a plan in place for that.

  Tropical vacations, you know. Especially given that the couple had a geriatric half whose bones ached in the cold. Not a foolproof explanation, but it would buy Throe enough time to create sufficient chaos in the race that the last thing anyone would be worried about was the whereabouts of the mismatched pair.

  Assuming the Brotherhood didn't continue to contain that chaos.

  Anger rose in the back of his throat, tightening his airway such that he wanted to scream it free. But then he calmed himself and refocused on the positives. The Brothers would not be able to make this all go away--if they killed enough members of the aristocracy, sooner or later they would be discovered and that would work well in Throe's plans. Further, he had made an important refinement in this attack, one that had been an inspired tweak if he did say so himself.

  It was better to target one of a pair. That way, there was a witness uncompromised by injury, with a clear recollection of events and a voice that was going to require expression.

  Unless the Brotherhood eliminated them.

  Then again...maybe they would not. Wrath seemed to have standards for behavior now.

  Well, Throe would find out, either way. And perhaps it would be to his advantage. After the previous night's exercise, he had waited for testimony of the attack to appear--but the only thing that had come was a statement of the death from a half-brother he had been unaware of Whinnig possessing. All he had known about the son of Stanalas was that he had managed to walk off with Groshe's money--which should have been Throe's for all he had done to service Naasha's endless demands.

  Yet there had been no details about the shadows shared. Just a listing on one of the race's Facebook pages that the family was requesting privacy during this time of grief.

  Stupid fucking discretion.

  Well, he'd fixed that--or tried to. No glymera, this time. Just two regular civilians that he'd had to wait to go by, sure as a deer hunter in a stand had to be patient. And then they had arrived--and he had sent his shadow down to do what it did.

  At least his entities were functioning well. They had no sense of self or purpose other than the commands he gave to them--so there was no disgruntlement or disagreement as Throe sent his shadow to kill the male on the right, but not the left. And when he'd been comfortable with how much injury had been meted out, he called the thing back with every confidence the order would be followed at the instant the mental thought was sent in its direction.

  And it had been.

  If only the rest were going so obligingly.

  As he felt his impatience ramping up, he knew he had to gather himself. This was no good, this agitation. Besides, these one-on-one attacks, although important, were not the bigger step he was going to take. No, that would come soon.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured his Book and was instantly calmed, sure as a young to its comfort blanket. All would be well, he told himself--and it wasn't going to take that long. He was setting in motion a civil war, and in this era of viral social media and polarized, extreme emotion, he had the wind at his back.

  Wrath and the Brotherhood did not stand a chance against him, and they were soon going to find that out. He just needed a couple more of these "random" attacks, and then he was going to stage his finale.

  It was so perfect, he impressed even himself, he thought as he disappeared into the night.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  As Assail sat in the training center's break room, he contemplated all of the evil things he had ever done or thought. He started from the very beginning when he'd stolen from his cousins the sweets made for them by his parents' staff...and continued all the way up until he had murdered that female Naasha, who had kept Markcus chained in her basement--as a blood slave.

  Oh, wait, he had burned down that house, too. With Zsadist's help.

  That Brother, as a former blood slave, had had an abiding reason to participate in the destruction, although Assail had been the one to kill the female as she had sat in her beauty chair, prepared to be pampered.

  After which the flames had been ignited, and Assail had resolved to stay in the midst of the blaze. At that time, with Marisol gone from his life, incineration had seemed a very reasonable end to the pain of missing her. The Brother had been determined upon another course, however--and had dragged him out of there.

  And so he was here again, he thought as he stared across at the Coke machine. Missing Marisol as if she had died even though she was well enough and very much breathing.

  Sitting forward in his chair, he put his head in his hands. Two hours had passed since he had told her, since she had run from him, since the truth he had not wished to share had shattered them as glass beneath the head of a hammer--

  As the door opened, he sat up to attention and felt a bolt of something like hope light the cold meat locker behind his sternum.

  "Oh, 'tis you, Vishous," he muttered as he sank back in the chair.

  "You're about as cheerful as I am." The Brother took out a hand-rolled, lit it, and grabbed an ashtray off a table. "Listen, Jane told me what's going on with you and your girl."

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Good, because that's not why I'm here."

  As V settled into the chair next door and crossed his legs ankle to knee, Assail realized there had been a further reason why he'd come clean instead of just wiping away Marisol's memories of him. There had been a treacherous optimism, deep down inside of him, rooted in the place where his love for her had grown from, that she would somehow understand and accept him. That she would rise above the surprise, fear, and disgust, and see him not for his species, but as one who loved her to his very soul.

  He should have known better.

  "So we've got a problem," the Brother said as he put his ashtray on his knee and tapped his hand-rolled.

  Don't talk to me about problems, you sonofabitch, I'm bleeding out over here, Assail thought.

  "Yes?" he intoned.

  "The species is facing a new threat and I need hollow-tip bullets."

  "I believe they are sold at all gun outlets--"

  "I need a quarter of a million dollars' worth of them."

  Assail blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me." V exhaled. "A bulk sale of that size? No way the human authorities won't get their panties in a wad. So I want you to make it happen, just like you did for those guns you--"

  "I'm out of that business, I'm afraid." Assail waved a dismissive hand. "I am retired."

  "So un-retire."

  Assail sat forward again and rubbed the back of his neck as it began to ache. "Forgive me, but as much as I respect the Black Dagger Brotherhood, I am fairly certain I have not been conscripted into your ranks. Neither you nor Wrath may order me to do aught--"

  "I just put three bullets into the skull of an innocent kid to keep him from turning into a monster after he died. So you can get off your sanctimonious high horse and help us out, true."

  Assail frowned. "Has the Omega endeavored to wield a new weapon?"

  "As far as we can tell, that's what's up."

  "And hollow tips stop them?"

  "If they're dipped in the fountain of my mahmen's private quarters and sealed up they do. Or at least they do a better job than conventional bullets. I want to offer them to the civilian population. Phury and the Chosen have agreed to help me--and even though I hate the idea of those females touching anything that's part of this war, if it'll help people stay alive, I'ma do that shit."

  Assail thought of the phone call he'd received on the burner he'd previously used to conduct business with, that female who had inquired as to whether he was satisfied with his shipment. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but clearly after Benloise's demise, a new supplier had found a way to get into contact.

  "All right," Assail said. "But I'd prefer, if you don't mind, to put y
ou in touch with the distributor directly. That way you can get what you want and I can stay out of it."

  V took a drag and spoke through the exhale. "Kind of a change for you and your capitalistic mores."

  "Money means little to me now."

  Vishous frowned, his dark brows sinking low over his bright white eyes, those tattoos at his temple shifting shape. "Yeah. I know that feeling. It sucks when you lose your female."

  "I told you, I'm not talking about it."

  The Brother got to his feet. "I need you to do what you have to in order to set things up for me and your supplier, but move quick. These attacks are happening regularly."

  "Aye. I shall have to get home to arrange things, however. The phone that I use is there."

  "I'll have someone drive you out--"

  "Actually, just send someone to the house, will you? Tell my cousins that the burner is in the left top drawer of my desk."

  "Roger that. Thanks."

  As Vishous strode to the door, his heavy boots marking the path with hard strikes, Assail envied the Brother his purpose...but it was rather in the way one might view an artifact from an ancient civilization, a leftover from a period in history long, long ago.

  An anachronism that was naught but a curiosity without current relevance.

  Before Vishous opened the way out, the Brother looked across the break room. "You know, you don't have to strike her memories. You can keep her, if you want. Wrath's a lot more lenient about that shit--and he should be, considering his Queen is a half-breed."

  Assail thought about brushing the conversation point off, but instead he shrugged. "A fine piece of advice, and much appreciated. However, my female is summarily horrified by me, so I'm afraid that will not be a course of action which will be available to me now or in the future."

  "That sucks."

  "You know, I find you have put together two most salient words on the subject."

  When Vishous left without any expression of heartfelt emotion or deep, male-tinted commiseration, Assail began to truly like and appreciate the Brother. And as for this new threat to the species? There was a time when it would have at least moderately intrigued him--insofar as it might possibly have affected his ability to garner income. Now, he was providing an introduction only out of a lukewarm obligation to...